Mrs Hughes' New Dress
by Lavender and Hay
Summary: An idea got from my odd reaction to the Series 2 behind the scenes trailer, but minimal spoilers. Mrs Hughes has a new dress.
1. Chapter 1

**This is a oneshot written out of pure exasperation with myself. While everyone else is concerning themselves with series two spoilers relating to the plot, the single spoiler that has got me most excited is the fact that Mrs Hughes is wearing what appears to be a new dress. I have no idea what significance, if any, this dress will have in terms of the show as a whole, but here I imagine that it does.**

She might have known. The country at war; the house in a state of utter disorganisation; their own personal lives in varying degrees of total upheaval and the staff at Downton Abbey were still distracted by the pettiest of things. It had always been the case; she didn't know what on earth gave her the notion that they might have grown out of it. And usually, it didn't really concern her too much; except that this time the petty thing they were distracted by and her were pretty closely linked. Because she was wearing it.

Well, it was ludicrous. She had needed a new dress anyway, her old one was getting rather past it. Her mistake had apparently been to choose one ever so _slightly _different from her old one. Alright, the small change in design led to quite a difference to the overall effect, but it was quite insignificant, really, in the grand scheme of things. A German army preparing to take a substantial shot at England was rather more pressing than her exposing a few more inches of her neck, after all. Barely even that. And she had thought it was rather fetching. Still modest, still sensible, not in any way gratuitous, but fetching. She had quite convinced herself that it suited her. It took years off her, the dress maker had said. She wasn't quite sure how to take that.

And here most of the staff were goggling at her as if she were a creature in zoo! Honestly, it was as if they'd supposed she didn't _have _a neck before now! Half indignant, half intimidated, she didn't know what to do with herself. The worst part was that they'd all seen fit to fall quiet, drawing even more attention upon herself. She felt herself blush furiously. She caught Mr Bates throw her the oddest of looks, then Mr Branson, then William; dear Lord, they were all men! Surely there was something highly improper in that. Thank heavens Mr Carson wasn't here to witness this.

Clearing her throat a little and rest her hand tactfully over her neck, she indicated that they should start eating without Mr Carson. That did something to draw attention away from her but not nearly enough. She didn't know who was more infantile; them for making so much fuss about a dress, or her for letting it bother her. Mortified by the whole situation, she carried on with her dinner, praying that they would stop looking at her. She could have come down to dinner in her nightdress and felt less awkward; at least then she would have understood why they were so surprised.

From then it got worse.

"I see you've started without me."

Mr Carson appeared, looking glum, as if he'd had a particularly trying day.

"Mrs Hughes said we could." 

Trust Thomas to drop her in it. She couldn't very well deny it either. Taking his chair at the head of the table, the butler began to throw her a reproachful look but was apparently stopped in his tracks. His eyes wandered quite plainly to the exposed skin at her neck and did not move far from there. Not him as well! She'd have thought that Charles Carson if no one else would behave like a gentleman and let her apparently ridiculous choice of garment go unnoticed. Having cost her quite a sizeable portion of this month's wages, there was no question of being able to avoid wearing the dress. She made a mental note to herself to find a black scarf, quickly.

…**...**

To make matters worse, he was _still _watching even as they sat on the settee in his pantry- supposedly discussing the business of the day, but in fact getting very little done. It was driving her to distraction. She'd taken care after dinner was over to check that she didn't have a dirty mark or a smudge of something on her neck, which would explain why everyone was staring at it. But no, clean as a whistle. Finally, she found she could stand it no longer.

"Charles," she interrupted him bluntly, "Would you mind telling me why everyone appears to find my so fascinating this evening?"

By the look on his face, he hadn't exactly be concentrating on the conversation either, and so was completely thrown by her question.

"Sorry?" he asked, frowning, "I don't quite follow."

She was hard pressed not to roll her eyes, but managed to cling on to her temper by the skin of its teeth.

"Everyone, including you, seems to keep staring at me," she pointed out.

"You're wearing a new dress," he told her sheepishly.

"I am well aware of that," she told him, "After all, I put it on. What I can't understand is why none of you seem to have the manners to hide the fact that you find it so hideous."

He was quiet for a few awkward moments; bowing his head to avoid her really quite piercing stare. To her it seemed as if he was trying to formulate the most polite way to tell her something really quite impolite.

"Elsie," he finally managed, seeming to test the use of her first name, "No one thinks it looks awful, at least not to my knowledge. It looks... very nice, Elsie, lovely, in fact. It really does."

She probably had more trouble believing that Charles Carson had just been so forward and presumptuous as to compliment a lady's appearance than she had had comprehending everyone else's absurd behaviour. And that was before she'd even processed that he was talking about _her_.

"You've gone mad," she told him shakily, "All of you! You mean to tell me that most of the male members of staff were staring at me because... because of..."

Words failed her momentarily. He watched her startled expression nervously.

"You mean to tell me that _you _were staring at me because you found it, me, attractive?" she could scarcely believe it.

She waited for a very tense moment before he inclined his head. For some bizarre reason it gave her a very pressing urge to laugh.

"You could say that," he managed with dignity.

Finally, that was what did it: she laughed out loud. Perhaps, it dawned on her, her unusual choice of dress had it compensations.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Ok, so not a one shot (again!), as seen as you all seemed to want me to write some more, which was nice. So here we have Carson's reaction to this hazardous garment. **

He had to admit it had taken him rather by surprise- pleasantly, mind you- but very surprised none the less. Probably because he was used to seeing Elsie Hughes buttoned up to within an inch of her life, or at least her chin. It took him a moment to realise _what _it was that was different, though he noticed that there was a difference straight away. She had a new dress on. He'd only glanced at her at first, but it still caught his eye and he was drawn swiftly back to it, ungentlemanly though it was he reflected in hindsight. But the effect was enough to catch anyone's attention; as indeed it seemed to have done to most of the room.

He had always acknowledged that Elsie was a handsome woman, and when he considered it, she was an excellent example of a good friend- having a subtle sense of humour to match any. And, as it seemed she was the person he was resigned to grow old alongside, he loved her dearly. But where on earth did she get a neck like that?- he thought more than a little disconcerted by the thought. Obviously, she got a neck like that from years of hiding it under tightly buttoned layers of thick starched material. The black of this new dress contrasted spectacularly with the milk white complexion. He didn't know what he had expected her neck to look like, he doubted he had given it a great deal of thought before now, but it wasn't _this _by any stretch of the imagination. It captivated him. He had the most irrational urge to reach out and touch the skin there, perhaps, even, to kiss it.

Charles Carson- he thought sharply to himself- you are sitting at the dinner table thinking amorous thoughts about Mrs Hughes' neck! What's more, you're probably staring at it quite avidly. Pull yourself together, man! And yet he was still marvelling at how on earth such a minor alteration to a dress could possibly cause him to see her in such a spectacularly new light. No, he thought, stop it! Elsie, he noticed, looking away from her neck now and towards her face, was staring very hard at her soup, determinedly not making eye contact with anyone. A faint flush had crept into her cheek and was creeping, slowly but surely down her face. Immediately feeling guilty for causing her awkwardness, he resolved to look away. But the flush was tingeing her neck now. He could not possibly watch this and keep a cool head; he busied himself with his own soup.

…**..**

He didn't know what on earth she was laughing at; this wasn't funny at all. What was wrong with him admitting to finding her neck... alluring? Alright, perhaps he shouldn't find it alluring, but at least he'd had the guts to say so. Well, maybe it was funny to her, but he was mortified. Butlers, as a rule, did not stoop to such levels; and if they happened to they certainly didn't own up to it! There was nothing he could do but wait- uncomfortably- for her to calm herself down; noting all the while the way she had her head thrown back accentuated that wonderful snowy stretch... Stop it!

"Good heavens, Charles," she finally stopped laughing, "I'm sorry, I just never thought that you'd ever say _that _to me."

He felt himself colouring a little; did she think he was made of stone? Surely she released that even his self-control had its limits. And her wearing that dress, he had to acknowledge, pushed dangerously at them.

"So," she began, he happened to notice that she was blushing furiously again- not helping him a great deal-, "How attractive does this dress make me to you? No really, I'd like to know," she assured him, responding to his startled expression, "Will I have to wear a scarf around the house to ensure you're not distracted?"

His instinctive response was "Don't you dare!" though obviously he could not say anything of the sort, least of all because he suspected that she was teasing him. He watched her carefully, considering his options. Of course, he didn't want her to think that he was some sort of beast and was going to get sick kind of enjoyment from goggling at her, but equally he could not let her leave with the slightest idea that that dress made her look anything other than wonderful. Goodness, it was warm in here. This conversation was getting really rather difficult. Finally, he decided to speak his mind, therefore- if nothing else- he could at least boast honesty.

"You've got a nice neck," he informed her placidly, as if telling her that it looked like it was going to rain.

Apparently, honesty was the _only_ virtue that his remark would be able to boast. He sat there considering that he should never open his mouth again. She looked at him carefully and seemed to decide he wasn't mocking her.

"I _definitely _need to find that scarf," she surmised wryly.

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	3. Chapter 3

"Mr Carson! Do you need any help this morning?" came the call from around the corner through his open pantry door. He was touched that Elsie should offer to help him today of all days- it was supposed to be her day off.

"Isn't there something else you'd rather be doing?" he called back, looking up from his desk growing conscious all the while that if they were going to debate the issue they should probably do it face to face, "Why don't you come in here and talk about it?" 

"Because the boxes of wine have come from London," came the response from the corridor, "I'm helping Gwen to stack them up out here. And this afternoon I need to see her Ladyship about our new staff plan, so I'll just take my day off tomorrow, if that's alright."

"Fine," he replied, standing up, "I'll come and help you now. I'll just find the invoice so we can check we've got everything as we put it in the cellar."

"Right you are."

By the time he'd rooted around his desk and found the required invoice the boxes were stacked neatly in piles and Elsie was at the far end of the passage sending Gwen back upstairs to help clean the bedrooms. He perused the list in front of him, counting boxes as he went past them.

"Well everything certainly seems to be in order," he told her as she returned to stand beside him, "There are enough boxes at any rate." 

"I know," she replied, "I've just lugged them in from the back door."

He smiled, flicking the pages of the invoice back to the first one, and looked up at her. And then froze.

"What?" she asked, looking both concerned and disconcerted.

Had he known what she was going to be wearing he certainly would not have agreed to spend the morning in a confined space with her. It would be too much to bear quietly. He looked for a way to explain himself with a modicum of dignity. She was definitely waiting for an answer by now.

"You're wearing that dress again," he pointed out sheepishly, fully expecting the exasperated roll of her eyes when it came.

"Don't start that again," she commanded, "I offered to wear a scarf with it and you didn't take me up on it. Now come and help me start shifting these boxes down to the cellar."

As she moved off and set about the task with a formidable physical strength that he never would have supposed her to possess, he was left to wonder how on earth he was ever going to get through the morning in one piece.

…**...**

It wasn't so bad, however. The cellar was dim anyway, and they found that if they worked on different shelves they got more work done anyway, even without taking into account that the space was needed as a buffer zone in order for him to concentrate. When they were separated by only one shelf he could hear her humming as she worked over the gentle chink of bottles. It made him smile- he knew the tune. It was nice to have the company apart from anything else; working in the cellar could make him feel rather isolated sometimes. With two doing the work they found they were finished quickly.

"Thank you," he told her as they stacked up the empty boxes ready to take back upstairs, "You've been a great help."

"Well there wasn't much point me just sitting around upstairs all morning," she remarked, "Anyway, I quite like it down here. It's quiet."

"You can come and keep me company down here sometimes, then," he joked, "You can forget the rest of the world exists when you're stuck in here all day."

"Yes," she glanced around the corners of the thick walls, "I suppose you can. I'd never really thought about it before."

She gave him a small smile and continued lifting the boxes at her feet. But he stopped her, he prised the wood from her hands and made her stand still, perplexed. It was the most irrational thing in the world that he could have done but being rational wasn't really on his mind at the moment. Though she was watching him more than a little alarmed, he raised his had to her neck and just slowly traced the line of her throat. It had captured his eye once again, the dim light from the oil lamp flickering on the white like gold. He could not go on like this, it was insane. Something had to be said or done before he simply ripped that ridiculous dress off her!

"Not this again!" But her heart was only half in the joke, he heard her voice catch. Perhaps she could see it in his eyes that he had been pushed past teasing now. Under his fingers he felt her swallow hard.

"Charles-..." she began warningly, but he silenced her by pressing his lips softly against hers. She let out what could have been a yelp at first but which turned decidedly into a little moan as he just stood there and kissed her.

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	4. Chapter 4

_**Excessively **_**silly. If it is possible to ship an unlikely friendship between characters I think I am starting to do that with Crawley/Hughes. **

She was very lucky in two particular respects. Firstly because it transpired, excelling her wildest, most frivolous imaginings, that Charles was a very... effective kisser. Not that she made a habit of imagining it, mind you. The second was perhaps- regrettably- all the more fortunate; they managed to jump apart quickly enough when they heard the cellar door opening. Hearing footsteps on the stairs they exchanged a rather panicky glance- the last thing they needed was Miss O'Brien's eagle-eye sussing out their heavy breathing or ruffled hair- but much to their relief it was Gwen who interrupted them; and she had the courtesy to knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs before entering.

"Mrs Hughes, her Ladyship says she'll see you now, if it's convenient."

No, it's blithering well not!-she would very much have liked to have replied, but thought that might give the game away somewhat. Instead, she smoothed her hand over her hair, hoping it was too dark for Gwen to have noticed how it had been knocked out of place.

"Thank you, Gwen. I'll be upstairs shortly."

Once she heard the door at the top of the stairs close, she counted to five before speaking. Charles was watching her anxiously, but she also thought she saw something like amusement there too.

"You'll be the death of me," she told him in a hushed voice, "You are a very devil, Charles Carson."

She thought it might have been more impressive if her tone hadn't sounded so awe-struck.

"That dress will be the death of me," he replied, "Go on," he told her, seeing her open her mouth to retort, "Her Ladyship will be waiting for you." 

She threw him her best attempt at a contemptuous look as she departed. It seemed to have very little effect, though.

It was true, though, that her Ladyship should not be kept waiting. Haphazardly smoothing her hair, she mounted the stairs as quickly as she could all the way from the cellar to the second floor. Oddly enough, the climb did not make her feel anywhere near as dizzy as she had been moments ago, if anything the air cooled her down. She knocked on the door of the drawing room where she expected her Ladyship would be and was admitted, but not by the voice she was expecting. Isobel Crawley stood by the sideboard, Charles not being present she was apparently helping herself to tea.

"Let me do that, ma'am," Elsie insisted, crossing quickly to the sideboard, determined that Charles' absence should not be noted and taken badly- it could be said, after all, that it was her fault.

"No matter, Mrs Hughes," Mrs Crawley told her kindly, "I'm sure I can manage. I imagine you're busy enough without having to come and wait on me?" 

"You could say that," Elsie was very tempted to laugh.

"Mrs Hughes-..." Mrs Crawley began as if about to ask something, but was cut off by the door opening again and her Ladyship entering. Elsie thought that Mrs Crawley was looking at her rather oddly as she said it, at her neck specifically. Good lord, not _you _as well!- she thought fleetingly.

"Hello, Mrs Hughes, Mrs Crawley," her Ladyship took a seat, "Thank you for coming to see me at such short notice. I-..."

Then there was the most spectacular crash from beside Elsie. Had she been made of weaker substance than she was she would have leapt cleanly out of her skin. Mrs Crawley had apparently dropped the china teapot straight on the floor, with some considerable enthusiasm. Tea pooled over the flat, smooth floor very quickly, towards her Ladyship in her white dress and shoes.

"Oh good gracious! I'm sorry!" Mrs Crawley exclaimed with enough enthusiasm for Elsie to doubt its sincerity, "Cora, my dear, go and sit in the drawing room along the corridor. Quickly now, before you get your dress stained. I'll stay here and help Mrs Hughes clean up this mess I've made."

Once her Ladyship had left, Elsie looked around at the wreckage of china and puddles of tea, reflecting that if it had been Mrs Crawley's design to make as much mess as possible she had done an excellent job, and looked towards the woman; wondering if she might explain herself. However, what she did in fact do only confused her more. Gently, Mrs Crawley took a hold of Elsie's arm and lead her out of the sea of tea. Now seriously worried about this, combined with having caught the woman staring at her neck, Elsie let herself be lead to the other side of the room with the air of a lamb going to the slaughter.

"Mrs Hughes," she asked, a wonderfully conflicted expression of embarrassment, concern, amusement, and sheer curiosity playing across her features, "What have you been doing with yourself?"

Baffled, Elsie noticed that she'd been placed in front of the large mirror by the window. She examined her reflection, what for she did not know; until she saw it, that was. Horrified, she raised her finger to touch it, it must have been a trick of the light, but Mrs Crawley had seen it from the other side of the room. Apparently blossoming on her throat, above the neckline of her new dress, was a sizeable and furiously red mark. She felt the rest of her face flush deeply, utterly horrified that she had been caught out like this, and very grateful that Mrs Crawley hadn't let her Ladyship see. She turned to the woman, still not quite sure what she could possibly say to excuse herself from this. The expression she met with told her quite plainly that the woman had rather a good idea of what she'd been up to.

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	5. Chapter 5

She stood there quite still for a moment, wondering what on earth she could possibly say to excuse herself from this. It did not help that Mrs Crawley was now biting her lip, trying to disguise her mirth.

"I..." she began haltingly, "I must have walked in to something."

"Neck first?" Mrs Crawley enquired; she seemed not to be able to help herself. Elsie was only grateful that she hadn't let her Ladyship see, "Mrs Hughes, I advise you watch where you're going in future. Particularly when you have that dress on."

You can say that again, Elsie thought, though she hoped Mrs Crawley wasn't aware of the seemingly uncontrollable states the offending garment drove Mr Carson to. Because that truly _would _be embarrassing.

"And I would recommend that you find yourself a nice thick scarf," Mrs Crawley advised.

It was odd that Elsie herself had joked about doing just that earlier on, now it seemed as if it was her only option. She nodded fervently, trying to maintain a shred of her dignity, if indeed there was any left to be maintained! This was what teenagers got caught out doing, not respectable housekeepers well into their fifties! Mrs Crawley looked quite at home among the chaos they had both caused- thank goodness one of them was.

"Now," she announced, "Mrs Hughes, I think it would be best if you went downstairs and, er, organised your... your affairs. I'll ring the bell for a housemaid to clear up this," she indicated to the shambles of a diversion she had orchestrated, "I imagine I shall see you this evening at dinner, if I get an invitation. I'll make your excuses to Cora."

With that Elsie understood herself to be excused and, wading through the puddles of cooling tea and broken china she made her way out into the corridor. She would thank Mrs Crawley later; at the moment her top priority was to get to her room and find something to cover herself up.

…**..**

She was by no means oblivious to Charles' look of dismay when he saw her appear at supper that evening, a scarf tucked tightly underneath the collar of her dress and reaching to hide her neck. Serve him flaming well right, she thought. Ridiculous man. Ridiculous dress! This was what came of trying to follow the fashions!

"I thought you said you weren't going to do that," he muttered to her in a low voice, indicating to her new accessory.

There was no one around, they were alone- probably unwisely- in the kitchen store cupboard sorting out the wine for that night. Still, she glanced quickly around him to be sure there were no intruders lurking, before quickly lowering the fabric and letting him see. She was dismayed to report that he looked no where near as horrified as he should have done. It had deepened now and was almost purple.

"Don't you look so pleased with yourself," she warned him in a hiss, "You know, this means no favourite dress until it's gone. And for longer too, if you're thinking of a repeat performance. You couldn't have just stuck to my mouth could you?"

"As I recall, you had no particular complaints at the time," he pointed out.

"That's not the point, Charles," she told him, "I felt so humiliated. Thank the Lord Mrs Crawley distracted her Ladyship-..."

"How did she manage that, then?"

"She threw a teapot at the floor."

"Oh, so that's what caused the tea incident this afternoon..." he looked as if his curiosity had genuinely been solved, "Sorry," he apologised, her face obviously telling him that he was being unhelpful, "Would you like me to speak to her? Tell her it was my fault?"

"Well, whatever she thinks, I'm fairly sure she doesn't think I did it to myself," she replied, "And, no, thank you, Charles. I got the feeling that a part of her was dying to find out who it was. And I'm not putting myself up to speculation- even from our employers."

He smiled at her gently.

"You're so dignified," he told her softly, sounding impressed. But that remark was far far too ironic to be taken seriously.

"Don't joke, Charles," she told him wearily, "I think I've had just about as much excitement as is good for me today."

He kissed her on the forehead.

"Careful," she warned him, not able to help herself.

He smiled.

"See, you're not above a joke yourself," he remarked.

"Let's hope I stay that way."

"Tea?" he asked, "Tonight in my pantry. To make it up to you." 

"Alright," she decided, "Just no throwing the teapot at the floor, for heaven's sake."

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	6. Chapter 6

**Lots of the Crawley/Hughes friendship-ship it this one.**

When the guests- this evening, mercifully, only Lady Violet, Mrs Crawley and young Mr Crawley- were arriving Elsie thought it would be decidedly best to wear a different dress. In fact it was the only decent thing to do otherwise, she had no doubt, Mrs Crawley might feel tempted to spend the evening smirking and coughing uncontrollably behind her napkin- which Elsie certainly wasn't about to endure.

However, even with her back in her old confirmed-spinster-buttoned-up-to-the-chin outfit, she still saw a vague glimmer of mirth in the woman's eye as they passed each other in the main hall. Elsie had to remind herself of how grateful she was to Mrs Crawley for distracting her Ladyship to prevent herself feeling quite cross with the woman. It would be very ironic if, having averted the catastrophe hours before, she brought it on now through indiscreet sniggering.

However, dinner was navigated through without further mishap, much to Elsie's immense relief, as was the servants' supper half an hour later downstairs. They might just, she thought, making her way back upstairs to help clear away the dinner things, make it to her meeting for tea with Charles without any further disasters. Now that _would_ be a fine thing. She was even relaxed enough to stand next to Charles at the doorway, chivvying footmen and housemaids to hurry along- as was their custom of an evening- without feeling as if she were being watched.

"Are you still on for a cup of tea?" he asked her quietly, between shifts in and out of the dining room.

She cast him a wry smile.

"I'll need it at this rate," she replied, smirking a little, wondering if he would rise to the bait of her next remark, "I'm quite looking forward to it, actually."

"I've only promised you a cup of tea," he reminded her, "How much _can _you look forward to that?"

"Yes, and we all know you'd be satisfied with just a drink, then bed," she commented under her breath, not quite believing that she dared to be having a conversation like this in the main part of the house, "It wasn't me who jumped on you in the wine cellar."

And if they weren't careful, they were heading for a repeat performance here and now, where anyone could walk in on them. Fortunately, this was the moment when a loud clatter of footsteps preceded the footmen's return from downstairs to collect some more dishes.

"Fair point," he conceded once they'd gone.

She smiled at a painting that she happened to be standing opposite. It did occur to her then that they were standing very close together, arms touching comfortably. In hindsight it would have been strikingly obvious to anyone who saw them that they were standing too close for comfort for people who weren't supposedly intimate with each other. But neither of them saw fit to spring apart when the sound of the drawing room door clicking quietly open came from round the corner. Mrs Crawley, apparently leaving alone, Matthew Elsie gathered later on was staying to talk to the girls, certainly saw them and neither realised _what_ she'd seen until they beheld the look of amused shock on her face.

The three of them stood there there for a very awkward moment.

"I'm just leaving," Mrs Crawley was the first one to recover herself, evidently very aware of what she had walked in on, "I was getting rather tired out."

"Allow me to fetch your coat, ma'am," Charles offered, the colour of his face indicating that he was quite anxious to get away.

"Thank you, Carson. That would be most appreciated."

Charles left and instead of following him to wait by the front door, Mrs Crawley turned to Elsie. Her look of triumph was such that Elsie already knew what she was in for before she'd even opened her mouth.

"I knew it was him!" Mrs Crawley declared in an excited whisper. She looked far more pleased about this whole state of affairs than Elsie was herself, "Oh, Mrs Hughes, I know it's not my place to say this, but you do make the most wonderful pair."

This confused Elsie immensely.

"Aren't you angry with us?" she wanted to know. She had never in all of her career known a member of an employer's family condone a relationship between two servants.

"Angry?" Mrs Crawley looked rather bemused herself, "Why on earth should I be angry with you? Do you think I would have gone about shattering crockery on your behalf so Cora didn't find out if I was angry with you?"

Conscious perhaps of how close they were to the densely inhabited drawing room, they began making their way down the stairs towards the front door.

"So, Mrs Hughes?" Mrs Crawley asked, with the air of someone talking to a friend they hadn't seen in a long time, "How long has it been going on? Oh, my dear," she evidently caught sight of Elsie's expression, "Forgive me. We're all supposed to be so in control of ourselves upstairs that any romance is nipped in the bud pretty quickly. I'm rather grateful to you both for reminding me that it still exists."

This explanation in mind, Elsie delivered the honest answer, hoping it would not be a gross disappointment.

"Half a day."

By this time they were approaching the foot of the staircase. Charles was waiting there with Mrs Crawley's coat in hand.

"Thank you, Mr Carson," she said, as he helped her into her coat, turning to smile warmly at them both and squeezing his arm- much to his alarm, Elsie saw- "God bless you."

And with that, she was gone, and Charles was looking at Elsie with great puzzlement. She wanted to laugh very much indeed.

"Come on," she told him, "Let's get back downstairs. You owe me some tea."

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	7. Chapter 7

The tea was brewing away in the pot. He straightened up and looked at her. Sitting on the settee she smiled rather weakly, and, at a loss for any other way to start the inevitable conversation, asked the question that had been pressing on her mind throughout every one of the precious spare moments she'd had that day.

"What have we started, Charles?" she wanted to know, "I wear that ridiculous thing, and all of a sudden you're pouncing on me,"- she hoped this didn't sound too much like a complaint, because if she was truthful it wasn't- "And we have Mrs Crawley wishing us joy, and smashing the family's crockery in our name."

"She'll have to stop that, for one thing," he remarked in an attempt at light-heartedness, "His Lordship won't be too happy if she makes a habit of it."

She looked at him sternly, telling him that she would like a serious answer, please.

"Sorry," he apologised, looking at his shoes. But still he did not answer.

"Charles?" she prompted him, concerned a little by the absence of a reply. She shouldn't be, though, she thought to herself, this was more like what you'd call normal; reserved old Charles- terrified to voice his feelings let alone act upon them. Perhaps it was selfish of her, but she'd rather preferred the progress he'd made to this original state; endearing though his reserve was, it was a nightmare for getting anywhere with him!

When he still said nothing, she got up and gently took him by the hands, drawing his attention back on to her.

"If I told you that I promised not to be upset, or offended, by anything you say, would it help?" she asked him, inwardly thinking how ridiculous such a promise would be. Here, now, he had the power to cut right through her with a simple word of rejection. But she sensed that she had to pretend to be strong through this one.

"It's not that," he told her, "Though, of course, I don't want to hurt you," he added hastily, the words gabbling out a little.

"I know," she assured him, "I know."

He was quiet again. She tried a different tack.

"If I promise not to laugh at you?" she asked earnestly, "Or find you ridiculous. Or foolish. Or any number of other things you might label yourself as."

That, she thought, had done it. He nodded haltingly, looking at where their hands were now entwined. Raising one pair of their hands, she nudged his chin a little so he looked her in the face. And they just stared at each other for a few seconds. Thankfully, it seemed to relax him a little.

"Elsie," he began quietly, "I've never felt anything like what I feel for you at the moment. I've never even felt it for you before," he confessed, his honesty striking to her at first and then a little heartening, "I've always liked you a lot, I've always admired you, always loved you, even."

"There's nothing wrong with that," she told him gently.

"But now..." he faltered for a way to express his current feelings in a way that was proper, that was polite, fit to be heard by a lady.

When he failed, she tried to suppress a little smile.

"Charles," she began hesitantly, willing him silently to continue in this new-found open and honest vein, "Do you... want me?"

She waited with baited breath, thinking she had been too incautious in her phrasing; but, really, she did not know how else she could have possibly put it with any modicum of clarity. When he nodded it was haltingly, almost as if he was ashamed to admit it- which, she reflected, was more than possible.

"Is that wrong of me?" he wanted to know, "The way I've acted today, was that wrong of me too? I've caused you so much embarrassment-..."

"I can cope with Mrs Crawley," she assured him. In all of his- of their- impetuosity that day she had quite forgotten the alarming propensity of his old-fashioned conscience to catch up with him. She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him tentatively on the lips. "I've loved you today, Charles Carson," she admitted, "In every sense of the word. Granted, you've surprised the life out of me, but I wouldn't want you to take a shred of it back," her tone was vehement.

And, wonderfully, she saw him smile.

"Elsie," he asked," Do you think you can love me tomorrow as well?"

That didn't sound too difficult. She squeezed his hands.

"I'll give it my best shot," she assured him, "Now, I want my tea."

**End.**

**Please review if you have the time. **


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